SAINTE-CROIX AND MARIE ENCOUNTER AN UNINVITED GUEST
They were each in ill-humour with one another. The apparent intimacy
of Marotte Dupré had aroused all Marie’s jealousy, so terrible in its
very calm; and Gaudin had been annoyed by Benoit’s allusions. They
passed along the room without speaking, nor was it until they gained
an apartment at the end of the suite that a word was spoken.
It was a small room they entered, with two deeply-stained windows, and
lighted by lamps placed on the outer side of the glass, producing
almost the same effect as though it had been day.
‘I think you must repent having brought me here,’ said the Marchioness
coldly. ‘It was badly contrived on your part not to forewarn your
other favourites, that they might have been more cautious.’
‘Your suspicions are so utterly without foundation,’ replied
Sainte-Croix, ‘that I shall not take the pains to refute them. At
present there are other matters of deeper import that demand my
attention. I expect, when you learn all, you will give yourself little
care about the continuance of our liaison. We may then know some
respite from the fevered restlessness and uncertainty of our
connection. We have experienced but little peace since we have been
acquainted.’
There was a bitterness of tone in his manner of pronouncing the last
sentences that attracted the attention of the Marchioness.
‘What are you alluding to?’ she asked.
‘In a word, Marie, I am ruined. The sum of money I brought here with
me to-night, in the hope of doubling it, is gone. I am deeply
involved: my creditors are pressing me on every side, and I know not
which way to turn to extricate myself.’
‘You judge me too harshly, Sainte-Croix,’ replied the Marchioness. ‘My
sweetest revenge would be to assist you when you were utterly
destitute. What must be done? The money left me by my father is in my
brothers’ keeping. Not a sol is spent but I must render them an
account.’
‘But one step is left to be taken,’ said Gaudin. ‘The time has
arrived; they must be removed.’
Marie remained for a time silent, as if waiting for Sainte-Croix more
fully to develop his meaning. At length she spoke--
‘I know not how we can proceed. I cannot tell whether it be my own
fancy or there is in reality ground for suspicion, but my brothers
appear to watch me in every action--every step. I see so little of
them too. They are seldom in the Rue Saint Paul.’
‘We must set other agencies to work,’ said Gaudin. ‘An apparent
stranger would never be suspected.’
‘It is dangerous,’ replied the Marchioness.
‘It is necessary,’ added Sainte-Croix. And after a moment’s pause he
continued: ‘The man Lachaussée, whom you have seen with me, is mine,
body and soul. I can in an instant cause to fall the sword which hangs
over his head. Your brothers’ occupation of Offemont will require an
increase of their establishment: can we not get Lachaussée into their
service? They will then be comparatively in our hands.’
‘Is he to be trusted?’
‘He is wily as an adder, and as fatal in his attack, to those who have
not charmed him. I will put this scheme in train to-morrow. He only
awaits my word to proceed.’
‘It must be done,’ replied the Marchioness.
And then she uttered a long deep sigh, the relief to her overcharged
heart being accompanied by a low moan of intense mental pain--not from
remorse, but utter despondency, in the reaction of her spirits, and
the apparent blackness of the prospect before her. The next moment, as
if ashamed of the demonstration of her feelings, she started up from
the couch on which they had been sitting, and prepared to return to
the principal room. As she advanced towards the door, she took a
brilliant jewelled chain from her neck, and placed it in Gaudin’s
hands.
‘Whilst we have an opportunity,’ she said, ‘let me give you this
carcanet. It is of some value, and by selling it at the Quai des
Orfevres you can provide for your present superficial expenses.’
Gaudin did not hesitate to take the costly ornament. He knew the
necessities of his position; besides, all finer feelings of delicacy
had long been merged in the gulf of his darker passions. He placed the
chain in the pocket of his cloak, and went towards the corridor. But
as they were about to pass out, a portion of a large book-case,
masking a door with imitations of the backs of volumes, was thrown
open, and Exili stood before them.
Marie uttered a slight cry of alarm, as she started at the sudden
apparition. Sainte-Croix seized the handle of his sword, and partly
drew it from its scabbard; but the moment he recognised the physician
he returned it.
‘Exili!’ he exclaimed.
‘You may well be surprised,’ replied the intruder. ‘I can excuse your
alarm, especially when you had such interesting schemes to settle.’
‘He has heard everything!’ said the Marchioness to Sainte-Croix.
She spoke in a low, hurried tone, scarcely above a whisper; but the
quick ears of Exili caught the import.
‘Ay, everything,’ he replied, with emphasis upon the last word; ‘both
here, and when you thought there were no others near you but the
silent inmates of the _salle des cadavres_ at the Hôtel Dieu.’
Marie instantly recollected the alarm which the noise of footsteps had
caused at the hospital, and the figure which she said had followed
them in the Rue des Mathurins.
‘Every day--every hour,’ continued Exili, as his eyes blazed upon them
like those of a famished animal in sight of food, ‘brings you closer
and closer to my toils.’
‘I presume I may be spared from this threatened revenge,’ said Marie,
‘whatever it be. There has been nothing in common between us. I know
you not.’
‘But I know _you_, Marchioness of Brinvilliers,’ returned Exili. ‘I
ought to. The mention of your name, one fine spring evening, on the
Carrefour du Châtelet, caused me to be hunted like a beast from my
habitation, and confined for many lingering months in the noisome
cells of the Bastille. You caused the punishment: you shall assist in
its reparation, or, failing therein, be ruined with your paramour.’
‘Miscreant!’ cried Sainte-Croix, as he seized an antique axe from a
stand of ancient arms that surmounted the mantelpiece; ‘silence!
unless you would have your miserable life ended at this instant.’
‘Strike, monsieur,’ replied Exili calmly. ‘Kill me here, if you
please; and to-morrow morning you will be summoned by the Procureur du
Roi to attend the exhumation of the body of M.
[image: img_11.jpg
caption: Sainte-Croix Surprised by Exili]
Dreux d’Aubray, and witness the result of certain chemical tests which
I have written down, and which will be delivered to the police by a
trusty acquaintance when he hears of my death.’
Sainte-Croix’s arm fell, with the weapon by his side. He gazed at
Exili, with his brows knit in corrugations of painful intensity.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, in a thick, quivering voice.
‘The trade of sorcerer is failing,’ continued Exili; ‘we are compelled
to burrow like animals underground, and dare not face the day. That of
poisoner is in a yet worse position, thanks to the lieutenant of
police, M. de la Reynie. I must have money to enable me to retire, and
die elsewhere than on the Grêve.’
‘I am ruined,’ replied Gaudin. ‘This evening’s play has robbed me of
the last sum I possessed.’
‘But you expect more,’ he replied, ‘when madame’s brothers are
removed. M. d’Aubray was rich, and, in fault of other children, she
will be sole heiress, beyond a trifling annuity to her sister, who has
for some years retired from the world. You know this, and have
calculated on it.’
They returned no reply. Exili took a small roll of parchment from his
vest--the portion of some old deed--and continued--
‘What is easier than for you to give me your promise that I shall
share this wealth with you? I have drawn up the conditions.’
He read them over to Gaudin slowly and distinctly; and, as he
concluded, laid them upon a marble table close at hand.
‘We have here neither pen nor ink,’ said Gaudin.
‘Pshaw! this evasion is contemptible,’ replied Exili, as he threw up
his loose black sleeve. ‘See here--the yellow shrivelled skin will
barely cover these blue veins. They are full of blood, and easily
opened.’
He took a lancet from his pouch and pierced one of the vessels; then,
as the blood sluggishly trickled forth, he twisted a slip of parchment
to a point spirally, and loading it with the red fluid, gave it to
Gaudin.
‘You might write fairer characters with a better pen,’ he said; ‘but
this will answer every purpose. I use it from necessity, not to make
the document more impressive; for blood is to me no more than ink.’
Sainte-Croix hastily signed the paper; and then Exili took it up, and,
having looked to see that all was fairly done, replaced it in his
vest.
‘You can continue your enjoyments,’ he said; ‘but do not seek to
follow me. Hereafter I will receive you. I make no mystery to you of
the way by which I came here. The passage below this door has a
communication with the Palais des Thermes, and I occupy the vault for
my laboratory. You will find me there, if you enter from the Rue de la
Harpe, and show the man at the gate this talisman. The place is, to
all appearance, a cooper’s workshop.’
He placed a small triangular piece of parchment, covered with
fantastic figures, which might have been an amulet for any dupe that
had consulted him, in Gaudin’s hand. He then entered a species of
closet, the back panel of which revolved on a pivot, allowing him to
pass out, after he had reclosed the masked door of the book-case.